A Season to Be Sinful Read online

  Everything was as it should be when they entered. Pinch went immediately to the cold fireplace and took the poker from its stand. He climbed on the chair to the left of the hearth and used the poker to stretch his reach. He ran the tip of it across a seam in the paneling directly above the ornate gilt frame of a pastoral landscape. When it caught the tip of a cleverly hidden lever, he wiggled the poker back and forth until it pushed the lever to one side.

  “It is beyond everything that you could have found that,” Lily said when the panel sprung open a few inches. “I can only imagine you were up to some trick at the time.”

  None of the boys volunteered they had been playing at acrobatics, stacking and climbing chairs when Midge noticed something wedged between the seams in the paneling. They hoped they had stumbled on an odd treasure, and it was in the course of trying to pull it out that the lever was moved to the side and the secret panel revealed itself.

  Lily helped Pinch down from the chair and directed him to replace the poker. She pulled open the panel and examined the other side. “How do you boys get back to this room if this closes behind you?”

  Midge stepped forward and pointed to the way the lever hooked on the interior side. “I can reach it if I’m on Pinch’s shoulders.”

  Stretching on her toes, Lily found she could just touch the tip of it with her fingers. She moved it back and forth experimentally. “And this goes to the gallery below?”

  “And the music salon,” Dash said. “Sometimes we’d go down to ’ear ’is lordship play.”

  Lily had to smile. She’d sat on the main staircase to overhear the concert, while the boys had discovered much better seats for the same. Lily regarded the passage. She was struck by how dark it was. “Do you keep candles inside?”

  “A few. But we always take one or two in wi’ us. Ye can ’ardly see yer ’and in front of ye if ye don’t.”

  Lady Rivendale joined Lily in inspecting the passage. “Extraordinary.”

  Lily stepped fully inside the narrow corridor. “Shh.” She tilted her head to one side and concentrated on listening. After a moment, she whispered, “Do you hear that?”

  Her ladyship’s voice dropped to a pitch that matched Lily’s. “What?”

  “It is Sheridan.”

  “I’m sure I don’t hear—”

  “Shh.”

  Lady Rivendale fell quiet again, adopting Lily’s position with her head cocked and her shoulders hunched.

  Lily trusted her own ears when she heard the low, indistinct murmuring coming up from below. She didn’t ask for confirmation this time. Stepping out of the passage, she addressed the boys. “When you were hiding in there earlier, where was his lordship?”

  “In the gallery,” Pinch said.

  “And you were eavesdropping?”

  “No. No, we made our escape as soon as we knew ’e was there.”

  “Did you?” Her tone made it clear she was patently skeptical. “Through the music salon and then to the kitchen for those blueberry tarts.”

  “Blackberry.”

  “Blackberry,” Lily repeated. She looked from one to the other and saw they would not be moved from this story. “Go on. To your rooms now.”

  “I should close the panel,” said Pinch.

  “No. I’ll do that. You do as you’re told.” They hesitated, then obliged, slinking off single file into the hall. “Well?” Lily asked Lady Rivendale. “Do you believe they weren’t eavesdropping on Lord Sheridan’s conversation?”

  “I’m afraid not. It is just the sort of intrigue they would find difficult to resist.”

  “Precisely my thought. I am trying not to imagine what they may have overheard.”

  “Come away from there, Lily. You do not want to repeat their experience. Close the door and have done with it.”

  Lily’s fingertips whitened where they pressed the edge of the panel. Distress darkened her eyes. “I must go,” she said. “I never thought I would want to see him again, but to have this chance . . . I cannot explain it. He is here, almost underfoot, and I find I very much need to hear his voice. The years I spent in his house . . . in his . . .” She shook her head and pressed her mouth flat for a moment. These were not things she could say to her ladyship. “It does not always seem real to me; often it is as though it happened to another person.”

  Lady Rivendale took a step closer. “Is that not a good thing, my dear? Do you not want to put it from your mind?”

  “I do not think I can, not if I do not fight for myself. I ran, you see. It was what I needed to do then . . . but now, now I think I need to do something else. I think I need to confront him.”

  “Confront? Oh, surely not. That is for Sherry to do.”

  “I know. Or rather I know he believes that.”

  Lady Rivendale did not attempt to hide her alarm. “And you do not? Lily, this is madness. If you must hear what is being said, if you must hear Woodridge for yourself to set things right in your own mind, then I will not stop you, but I cannot countenance a confrontation. In fact, I forbid it. If you cannot clearly consider the matter of your own safety, then I would ask that you consider Sherry’s.”

  “I understand. I am only going to listen. Please, you said you would not stop me from doing that.”

  Too late her ladyship realized the trap she had set for herself. By misjudging Lily’s intent, she had in effect given permission. “Not alone. I am going with you.”

  Lily shook her head. “No. It is too private. It would be like inviting you into my nightmares. I cannot do it . . . and you would not want to be there.”

  When put to her in such a manner, Lady Rivendale had to agree. “Very well, but I will wait here with the door open, and you must return immediately if it all becomes too much to bear.”

  “Yes.”

  Lady Rivendale regarded Lily, frankly dubious. “I believe you would say anything to be on your way.”

  “Yes.”

  That honesty brought home the futility of further argument. Lady Rivendale gave her attention to finding Lily a suitable candle. She found a three-stick candelabra, lighted it, and passed it to Lily. “Have a care with it, though I suppose if the scoundrels did not burn us to the ground, we are safe enough with you.”

  “Thank you.” Impulsively she kissed Lady Rivendale’s cheek, then before there was any comment regarding it, Lily slipped into the passage and started down the stairs.

  Sherry noted that Woodridge had yet to show any signs of being discomfited by the course of their conversation. That was not unexpected. The baron was adept at schooling his features, and Sherry understood that what he had disclosed about the Crick affair was more of an annoyance to Woodridge than a revelation that would require him to alter his thinking or take any action.

  “Do you believe in happenstance?” asked Sherry.

  Woodridge sipped his tea. “Happenstance. As a matter of faith? No. Does it ever occur? Yes, but perhaps not so often as people are wont to believe. Is it a point of philosophy that you wish to make, Sherry? What has coincidence to do with poor Mr. Crick?”

  “I’m not sure that it does. But you were the one who placed the assignment before me.”

  “As I did many others. What are you suggesting?”

  “I think you knew Crick was innocent at the outset.”

  Woodridge calmly set his cup in the saucer, then set both aside. “You mean to present some proof, I hope.”

  “I have none. It is merely conjecture.”

  “You dare. I should call you out for that.”

  Sherry shrugged. “That certainly is your right.” It was then that Woodridge blinked, and Sherry knew he had pricked the man at last. “I wonder what evidence I shall find linking you to Crick? I will be looking, you know, so if you have not covered your tracks already, there is time yet for you to do so. Whether your intention was to discredit me or whether you benefited from Crick’s death in some way, I mean to eventually discover the truth, no matter what course the remainder of our conversation takes.”


  Woodridge gave a shout of laughter. “I believe you are serious! Oh, this is rich. By all means, Sherry, you must do what you think is right, but be warned that if you take this course, you will discredit yourself. I will not have you say later that I was responsible for it.”

  “I shall consider myself duly warned.”

  Woodridge simply grunted.

  “It occurs to me that it was the introduction to Lady Rivendale that put the stone in the pond.”

  “Speak plainly, Sherry. What does that mean?”

  “Ripples, Woodridge. I am speaking of ripples. I introduce my godmother to you, and not long afterward you suggest that some sort of relation exists that would make you entitled to a measure of her fortune. Perhaps you imagine I stand between you and that fortune; you might even believe I have spoken out against you in regard to my godmother remarrying. You put the Crick assignment before me, knowing it had the potential to go very badly, yet before you can announce that Crick was innocent of the charges, I discover the thing myself and bring it to the attention of others in our circle. I do not think you wanted me to leave our small group but rather to be placed in a position where you would have reason to watch me closely. By coming forward myself, the effect was exactly the opposite. I was given as much—if not more—freedom of movement and choice of assignments as anyone has ever had.”

  Woodridge rubbed his chin, his countenance unchanged by anything he heard. “This is fantastical, Sherry, but please, go on.”

  Sherry’s darkly intent eyes communicated he’d had every intention of doing so. “In spite of what was offered me, I was prepared to leave. It was not an easy decision; I knew what was expected of me. At the time, I thought I knew what you expected of me. I stayed longer than was my wont, longer than I should have. Within a fortnight of announcing my decision to go, an attempt is made on my life in Covent Garden.”

  “You believe I had something to do with that? God’s truth, Sherry, that limb you have crawled out on will surely break under the weight of these absurd accusations. If you talked to Conway and Gibb, then you know few of us have been spared an assault.”

  “But I was meant to die. The person who saved my life nearly did. The attempt on my life was the first. All of the ones that followed were intended to point to a different game. Yes, I know all about the poisoning you suffered. Easily faked, but even if you went further and took some potion yourself, I am certain you were never in any real danger. Moreover, I have no doubt there would have been another attack against me if I had remained in London.” He shrugged. “Though perhaps now that you’re here, you will try again.”

  “Bah! Now you are being ridiculous. If I wanted you dead, it would be done.”

  Sherry remembered saying much the same thing to Conway and Gibb. There was a difference, though, and he spoke to it. “Your mistake was in not doing the thing yourself.”

  Woodridge neither explained nor defended himself, but he did blink again.

  “You cannot account for every particular when you hand over the work to another,” Sherry said. “You taught me that, you know.”

  “I taught you many things, but I see little evidence of lessons learned.” Woodridge’s sharp chin lifted in the manner of a challenge. “You have yet to make your case. I am not persuaded by any of the things I’ve heard. You will not pull a confession from me, Sherry. I am not Crick. I do not yield to accusation alone. There must be proof.”

  “I have a name.”

  “Then you have a liar. Anyone who confesses that I hired him to kill you is a liar.”

  “He will not like to hear you have called him such. He has his standards, I believe. Call him a boman prig, and he would thank you for the honor. He wouldn’t blush at being called a pimp. But name him a liar? I think Ned Craven would stick a shiv in you without blinking an eye.”

  The baron’s blink became a twitch.

  The candelabra trembled in Lily’s hand. Light flickered on the walls of the stairwell and across her pale face. How had Sherry discovered Ned Craven was responsible for the attack? She’d been so careful not to reveal more than a few inconsequential details, and she’d discouraged him from speaking to Blue Rutland or making inquiries about Ned as they related to the boys. She’d always suspect that if Sherry knew Ned Craven was the one carrying the shiv that evening in Covent Garden, it would be more difficult, perhaps impossible, to persuade him that he was indeed the target of the attack. How easy it would have been for Sherry to convince himself that she had been Ned’s intended victim and lowering his guard might well have cost him his life.

  How long had he known? she wondered. Lily didn’t think it was likely he’d come by this intelligence while yet in London. She doubted he would have left without resolving it in some fashion. That meant he’d learned of it since arriving at Granville Hall, and there were few sources of that information here in the country.

  Barring the possibility that Sherry had come by the knowledge through some correspondence with Blue Rutland, everything pointed to the scoundrels.

  In hindsight, it was less surprising that they had revealed the truth to Sherry than that they had never whispered a word of that revelation to her. That understanding pricked her heart a bit, and the smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth was a shade bittersweet. Lily reminded herself this was not a matter of Pinch, Dash, or Midge shifting allegiances, but broadening them. It was something to be not only hoped for but rejoiced in, and she would appreciate it in time.

  Glancing around her, she noticed the candelabra’s light was no longer shivering. Her heartbeat had slowed, and her hand was once again steady. She edged closer to the panel so she might pick up the threads of the conversation in the gallery.

  “Will you have a stronger drink now?” Sherry asked. Without waiting for a response, he rose and went to the door where he rang for Wolfe. When the butler appeared a few moments later, Sherry asked for a decanter of Scotch and two glasses. While waiting for Wolfe’s return, he observed Woodridge begin to assume a more relaxed posture. It required some effort as this bearing did not come naturally to him. It was the sense he had of his own importance that made it difficult for the baron to affect ease in his carriage.

  Sherry waved Wolfe into the room to set down the tray and take away the tea and uneaten cakes. He poured a tumbler for Woodridge and carried it to him. When the baron did not reach for the glass, Sherry said, “If you like, I will drink first.”

  Unamused, Woodridge took the tumbler from Sherry’s hand, then set it on the table beside him. “I won’t be needled by you, Sheridan.”

  Shrugging, Sherry poured a Scotch for himself and took his seat. He casually stretched in the chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. He rolled the tumbler between his palms. “Ned Craven. Do you mean to pretend you do not know the man?”

  “Not only am I unacquainted with the gentleman, I have never heard the name before.”

  Sherry chuckled softly. “Pray, do not lay further insult on poor Ned’s head by calling him a gentleman. He will certainly not thank you for it, though he will probably not be moved to kill you.” Sherry reined himself in, allowing his smile to fade. “Do you think Ned will not say a word against you? If you do, then you have overestimated your man. Perhaps you were unaware that he makes a fair living for himself in Holborn informing on others of his ilk. That they do not attempt to do the same to him is the truest measure of the power he wields there.”

  “Yet it seems you are a veritable wellspring of particulars regarding Mr. Craven. How can that be?”

  Sherry was aware that Woodridge was getting his feet under him again. That was entirely agreeable. Pulling the rug out was only effective if the baron was standing. “You cannot truly believe I would name my informants. Protecting them is one of the inviolable rules. Another lesson learned from you.”

  “You are rather full of yourself, Sherry. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

  “Proverbs, is it not?” The smile was back i
n Sherry’s voice, if not in the shape of his mouth. “Tell me how you decided that Ned Craven would serve you in this latest enterprise. Asking a man to do murder for you is different, I think, than asking him to procure young girls . . . or even young boys.”

  Woodridge’s fingertips whitened on the arms of his chair, but his complexion mottled. His sharp intake of breath was audible as air whistled between his teeth.

  Sherry waited for the baron to collect himself. “Am I wrong, then? Perhaps I have misremembered what I was told. Boys were never your interest, were they? It is only that Ned is well known for acquiring them for gentlemen of a certain persuasion.”

  “Perversion,” Woodridge said tightly. “Not persuasion.”

  “You do not feel so strongly, I collect, about either murder or the purchase of les jeunes filles.”

  “What is it you think you know, Sheridan?”

  “Have I been less than forthcoming? I am saying your association with Ned Craven began as a business arrangement in which he found girls bearing a specific stamp for you. Over time, I think you recognized Ned might be useful to you in other ways.”

  “Mentored him, you mean? As I did you? Made him one of us?”

  Sherry gave a shout of laughter. It was loud enough to set Woodridge back in his chair. “God’s truth, I hope not. That would be the outside of enough. It is difficult to imagine any candidate less inclined to accept orders than Ned Craven. But perhaps that was your experience. He has not done well by you.”